


leather gloves and dead flowers

by nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare/pseuds/nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare
Summary: Shion's touch is deadly - literally. Shion's skin cannot come in direct contact with anyone else's, or the other would die. Nezumi, new to the small town where Shion lives, does not know that, and while Nezumi usually keeps his distance from people, Shion happens to be the exception.Preview:When Nezumi reaches out to take the toothbrush, of course their fingers do not touch. Instead, Nezumi’s skin grazes Shion’s glove, and Shion pretends he can feel it, the warmth that his mother told him resulted in the contact of skin-against-skin.He wonders if Nezumi’s skin is warm too, or if it is like his voice, cool and smooth. Maybe his fingers are soft, even though they share the hue of hard porcelain.“Thanks,” Nezumi murmurs, and Shion likes the way his gratitude comes grudgingly, likes that he has to earn it, likes that it only seems more genuine because of this.“You’re welcome, Nezumi,” Shion says.He likes saying Nezumi’s name. The syllables are strange and secretive on his tongue. Jumble around his lips like a mystery in themselves.Shion likes that this man has secrets. In a town where Shion knows everyone, it is nice to know he is no longer the only one with something to hide.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote and posted this fic in April, 2015, and I'll be reposting it one chapter every day (even though clearly it's already completed). 
> 
> I'm reposting some of my old fics from the many accounts I previously deleted over the past few years, so if you're familiar with my fics and want to request that I repost a certain old fave, feel free to message me at my tumblr: http://coolasamackerel.tumblr.com or comment on this post: http://coolasamackerel.tumblr.com/post/160488980276/danielles-nezushifree-fics and I'll be happy to consider reposting it! For both my new readers and my old guys, hope you enjoy the fic!! :D

(Red)

            The sun paints the inside of closed eyelids red. Nezumi tips his head up to the sky, feels his skin prickle with the warmth of midday.

            He opens his eyes, blinks, crosses the street, and walks in the shadows of buildings. His skin cools in the darkness. Cools enough so that he shivers, shoves his hands in his pockets, walks with his head down. He is grateful for the quiet of the street.

            When he gets to the theater, it is closed. Nezumi stands outside, feet from the door, a glass that has clearly just been shined, shows streaks of dried water that glint blue and violet in the sun. He observes the cobwebs in the right-hand corner of the doorframe, how misplaced they make the clean glass look.

            Peeling yellow stickers on the glass door notify Nezumi that the theater is not open on Mondays.

            Today happens to be a Monday.

            On Tuesdays, the theater opens at noon, according to the stickers. Nezumi pulls the flier out of his back pocket, the header of which reads, _Auditions Open!_ , the name of the theater matching the name painted on the concrete above the glass doors. Instead of refolding it, he curls it into a tube, paper crinkling in his palms, then steps forward, reaches up, and uses the tube to hit away the cobwebs.

            He drops the cobwebbed flier into a trashcan on the sidewalk as he walks away, figuring he should look for a hotel. He won’t bother looking for an apartment until he knows he’s got a part at the theater.

            Nezumi walks in the direction of noise. A hotel would be in the busier part of town, while the theater is clearly on the outskirts.

            Can’t be good for business, but Nezumi isn’t altogether concerned. If it closes down, he’ll just move somewhere else.

            Three blocks later, Nezumi turns right to avoid a dead end, and the buildings no longer shield him from the sun. He squints against the brightness, but doesn’t look down, wanting to observe the shops that have begun appearing around him, small and cheerful.        

            The town, in short, is quaint. He’s not altogether fond of quaint, but supposes the quiet is nice. A flower shop to the right. A coffee shop to the left. Children playing on the street like he’s in some corny movie.

            And there is, of course, a bakery, the smell is of which is intoxicating from a block over. Just as Nezumi reaches it, an old man walks out the door, which opens with a chime of a bell. He is carrying a black trash bag, and Nezumi watches him with some amazement at the ease at which he throws the bag into the trashcan on the corner.

            The amazement at the old man’s youthful gestures is explained the moment he turns from the trash, and Nezumi observes that he is not an old man at all, but a boy, in his early twenties at most – around Nezumi’s age, probably.

            He stops on sight of Nezumi and stares, as if Nezumi is the one who should be stared at.

            Nezumi stares back, fully aware that it has become awkward, wondering what the hell this kid is staring at anyway, it’s not like Nezumi is the one with ridiculously white hair and bizarre red eyes.

            “Shion?”

            The voice belongs to a woman, and comes from the open door of the bakery. It is presumably directed at the white-haired kid, as he nearly jumps and turns.

            “Be right there, Ma!” the kid calls, before glancing back at Nezumi. “Hi,” he says.

            Nezumi says nothing back. He wants to ask, _Why the hell are you staring at me?_ or something along those lines, but he’s more interested in seeing if the boy – Shion, it would seem – will offer an explanation on his own, like a normal person.

            “So, I’ve got to go,” Shion says, pointing his thumb at the bakery door.

            Nezumi raises his eyebrows.

            _Why should I care?_

            He notices for the first time that the boy is wearing a pair of black leather gloves, sprinkled with the same white powder as his blue apron – flour, probably.

            “Come on, I’ve just got to get the lunch rush, it won’t be long,” Shion says, and only after he offers a warm smile and walks into the bakery does Nezumi glance around him, sure there must be someone else to whom the boy was talking.

            There is a young couple a few yards behind Nezumi on the sidewalk, an elderly woman on a bench reading a newspaper, and a guy leaning against the sheet music shop next door and talking on a cell, but none of them seem likely candidates for Shion’s request either.

            Nezumi stands where he is for another second, then finds himself walking into the bakery, mostly, he rationalizes to himself, because he’s got nothing better to do.

            Inside, Shion has disappeared. There seem to be more people in the small bakery than Nezumi saw throughout the town all day, and he sidesteps them to find an empty table by a window, where he sits without quite knowing why.

            He observes the other occupants, most of whom stand in line in front of a glass counter, which displays a large selection of baked goods.

            Nezumi breathes deeply, closes his eyes, and rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, feeling his shoulders fall.

            It has been a while, since he’s simply allowed himself to sit.

            At the sound of Shion’s voice, Nezumi opens his eyes, but doesn’t move otherwise. Shion has reappeared behind the register at the end of the glass display, immediately noticeable behind the crowd due to his hair.

            Nezumi watches him take orders, smiling at every customer as warmly as he’d smiled at Nezumi outside the shop, but most of the customers he knows by name.

            He asks them how their kids are, if their mother is feeling better, if they are still planning that trip to the States, seeming genuinely interested in each of their lives.

            Nezumi tunes out the conversation after a while and instead wonders if this Shion dyes his hair, or is wearing colored contacts, or both. Maybe it’s some kind of advertising ploy to attract people to the bakery.

            It wouldn’t be completely ridiculous. Nezumi, after all, finds himself rather attracted to the bizarre look, thinks it wouldn’t be so strange if other people in the town were as well, if more customers could be so easily garnered.

            Even so, it seems odd that someone would dye his hair to get business. Not that the kid is altogether normal.

            Nezumi is just considering the possibility of a wig when he realizes the line has withered to one, the old woman, coincidentally, who’d been reading the newspaper on the bench outside minutes before. The newspaper is now spread open on the counter in front of the register, and Shion is bent over it, nodding as the woman points out a picture of her cat.

            “It’s the tenth time he’s been saved by that kind fireman,” the woman is saying proudly, and Shion looks up from the newspaper at her, smiles.

            “I’m glad Hinata is safe,” Shion says, and Nezumi leans back in his chair, the sun streaming through the window and catching on his jacket.

            He pulls his jacket off, crosses his arms over his chest, watches Shion finally get the old woman to stop talking about her cat and say her order, then retrieve her order for her with another smile.

            The line, finally, is gone, and Shion looks around, eyes catching on Nezumi a second before he’s grinning again, waving.

            Nezumi does not wave back. He narrows his eyes instead, and watches Shion come out from behind the counter, pulling off his apron as he walks across the shop, and then he’s sitting in the seat across from Nezumi.

            “Hi,” he says again. “Thanks for waiting.”

            Nezumi leans forward, rests his folded arms on the table, but a closer look at the kid does not help unravel any of the mystery.

            “Who are you?” Nezumi asks, because it’s about time someone asked, and the kid clearly wants to act as though they’re old friends.

            He’s still wearing his leather gloves, Nezumi notes.

            “Oh, right, sorry. My name’s Shion. My mom owns this bakery, and I help out,” Shion says, as if any of this is relevant.

            Nezumi ignores this spew of useless information. “What do you want from me?” he asks, although what he really wants to know is – _Why do you look at me as if you know me?_

            For the first time, Shion appears confused. “I don’t want anything from you.”

            “Then why the hell are you talking to me?” Nezumi asks, completely bewildered.

            The guy, he has concluded, is crazy. Possibly dangerous, for all Nezumi knows.

            Shion squints, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

            “Don’t ask me what I’m talking about when I’m asking you what you’re talking about,” Nezumi snaps, and Shion cocks his head like he’s a puppy or something.

            “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Aren’t you here about the room?” Shion asks.

            “What room?”

            “From the ad?” Shion asks, leaning closer, elbows on the table now too.

            The sunlight makes his hair even more outlandish, in that it becomes almost reflective, and Nezumi finds himself squinting.

            “I clearly don’t know what you’re talking about. You can elaborate, unless you’d like to keep questioning me,” he replies, and Shion smiles.

            “We put an ad in the paper about leasing the spare room. It’s above the bakery – My mom and I live here. I thought that’s why you were standing outside the bakery. I’d never seen you in town, so I figured you were new.”

            Nezumi blinks. He decides not to explain that he was standing outside the bakery in order to watch Shion take out the trash, as the correction seems unnecessary.

            “How much is the room?” he asks.

            “So you do know about the ad?”

            “Clearly not, or I’d already know how much the room was,” Nezumi says, and Shion blinks.

            “I guess you’re right. It’s two-fifty a month, plus utilities. We’re open for negotiation, but I can show you the room before we decide all that, if you want.”

            It’s cheap, cheaper than any apartment Nezumi would be able to find, but he still hasn’t even got a job.

            Even so, he finds himself nodding, and he grabs his jacket as he and Shion stand up.

            “Meet me by that door over there,” Shion says, pointing to a door leading to a staircase on the other side of the bakery, and Nezumi nods, watching Shion walk behind the counter and call through another door that he can guess leads to the kitchen. “Ma! I’ll be upstairs, I’m showing someone the room!”

            “Okay, hon!” a voice calls back, and then Shion is beside Nezumi again, leading him up the stairs.

            “There’s only one bathroom, so you’ll have to share with us. We’ve also got a small kitchen that obviously you’ll have full access to. The bakery opens pretty early, but you can’t hear much from upstairs, so even if you’re a late waker it probably won’t bother you. We don’t allow pets because it’s a food business, but if you have a fish, I’m sure that’d be fine.”

            “I don’t have a fish,” Nezumi says slowly, as they reach the top of the stairs, where Shion turns.

            “There’s a pet store across the street, if you wanted one.”

            “I don’t want a fish.”

            “But if you did, it wouldn’t be a problem,” Shion says, and Nezumi just stares at him until he begins walking again, with another small smile.

            Nezumi doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone smile so much. It’s unnerving and slightly irksome.

            “So this would be your room, if you take it,” Shion says, walking through a doorway right off the left of the staircase. Nezumi follows him, notes that it’s a decent size with a window to the street below. Nezumi walks over to it and peers out. “Nice, right?”

            Nezumi turns from the window, leans back against it. “Aren’t you supposed to do a background check on me? I could be an escaped convict.”

            “Are you?”

            “I could be.”

            “Well, so could I,” Shion says, and Nezumi stares at him.

            Definitely not normal.

            “So you’re just going to let a stranger live in your house?” Nezumi asks.

            Shion seems to think about this, scratching his cheek with a gloved finger. “Okay, what’s your name?”

            “Nezumi.”

            “Nezumi,” Shion repeats. “There, we’re not strangers anymore.”

            Nezumi fights the urge to throw his hands up in the air. Instead, he points at Shion. “Being so careless could get you killed.”

            “I’ll take that risk,” Shion replies, with another smile.

            “That’s incredibly stupid of you,” Nezumi snaps, unsure why he’s so irritated.

            He hardly knows this guy, after all, which is the point, anyway.

            “Okay, well, what do you do, Nezumi?” Shion asks, folding his arms.

            Nezumi glances away from him, looks out the window. He can see the awning of the bakery, and it is a bright red.

            “I’m an actor. The old theater I worked at closed down, so I came here to audition at your local theater.”

            “Oh, wow. That’s amazing, Nezumi.”

            Nezumi looks up from the window, peers at the kid, not sure what’s so amazing but not caring enough to ask. “That’s all you want to ask me?”

            Shion takes some time to contemplate this. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me?” he asks.

            Nezumi, in all honesty, is too startled by the question to do anything but agree, and after following Shion back downstairs where the kid alerts his mother that he’s taking his lunch break, they head out in the direction of the coffee shop Nezumi passed earlier.

            It’s too hot to be wearing leather gloves, but Nezumi doubts Shion is wearing them because he’s cold, as he’s only wearing a long sleeve t-shirt without a jacket and doesn’t seem to be shivering.

            The gloves, however, are definitely not the weirdest thing about this kid, so Nezumi says nothing – not that he’s given the chance to, as Shion is talking nonstop, describing every shop they pass and the people that own the shops.

            “Do you know everyone in this town?” Nezumi mutters, after Shion stops to talk to the same kids that were playing on the street when Nezumi walked down the first time.

            Shion holds the door of the coffee shop open for Nezumi. “Everyone but you, as you seem to keep reminding me,” he says, and Nezumi smiles accidentally, glad Shion is behind him and cannot see.

            They both order tea – Shion not needing to specify his order, as of course, the owner knows him – and sit at the end of the counter on stools beside each other.

            “So are you?” Shion asks, after adding three packets of sugar to his tea.

            “Am I what?”

            “An escaped convict?”

            Nezumi sips his tea, debates lying to play around with the kid, but settles on the truth. “No. You?”

            Shion laughs. A nice laugh, Nezumi thinks. “No, I’m not either. So will you take the room?”

            Nezumi traces his finger along the edge of his mug. He should wait until he has a job, but instead, he shrugs. “Fine.”

            “Great! You can fill out the paperwork when we get back. Oh, and there’s a one-hundred-dollar deposit, but it’ll go towards your next month.”

            Nezumi nods, pulling his hair up into a ponytail and regretting getting hot tea instead of something cool. He eyes the leather gloves again, but this guy’s fashions statements are his own business.

            “Are you going to ask?” Shion says, and Nezumi looks up at him startled.

            “What?”

            Shion smiles. “About my hair and eyes. It’s okay to ask.”

            “It’s a little narcissistic to assume I care so much about your appearance, don’t you think?” Nezumi replies, coolly, and Shion laughs again.

            “Are you calling me self-centered?”

            “Is there another definition for narcissistic I’m not aware of?” Nezumi asks back, and Shion rests his cheek on his glove, smiles at Nezumi and looks up at him through his eyelashes, which Nezumi notes are also white.

            So it’s not a wig.

            “I like you,” Shion says.

            Nezumi narrows his eyes. “You’re not very normal,” he replies.

            “Oh, I know,” Shion says, and though he’s still smiling, Nezumi thinks there’s something sad about the curve of his lips that Nezumi is becoming quite familiar with, in their short acquaintance.

            But then, it’s not like he knows this Shion, so to think he knows the kid’s smiles is simply ridiculous.

 

(Orange)

The toothbrush Shion finds for Nezumi is orange. He points this out for Nezumi in the bathroom where they stand side-by-side, looking at each other in the mirror instead of directly.

            Shion holds up the orange toothbrush. “This one is yours,” he says, to the mirror.

            “I can buy my own toothbrush.”

            Shion likes the sound of Nezumi’s voice. It’s low and cool and smooth and lovely.

            Just like Nezumi himself, Shion thinks.

            “We had a spare one.”

            “I don’t need it.”

            “So you’re not going to brush your teeth?” Shion asks, to Nezumi’s reflection in the mirror.

            He’s beautiful, even in his reflection. Doesn’t seem real, so looking at him in the mirror is almost more believable than seeing him directly.

            “I’m going to buy my own!” Nezumi snaps, reaching up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

            Shion looks at Nezumi’s hands. His fingers are long and slender, and his movements are graceful. An actor, he said, and Shion can believe it easily.

            He would pay money, to watch this man on a stage.

            “It’s too late to buy one tonight, everywhere is closed.”

            “Everywhere?” Nezumi asks, grey eyes meeting Shion’s gaze in the mirror.

            Shion nods, and so does his reflection. “It’s a small town. People like to be at home with their families for dinner, and everyone understands that. Do you want the toothbrush or not?”

            Nezumi sighs, and when he turns to look at Shion, Shion still doesn’t look away from their reflections.

            He cannot tell anything from Nezumi’s expression that reveals what Nezumi thinks when he looks at Shion. The man is quite adept at hiding his expressions, Shion noticed. He’s almost jealous of this.

            Actors are supposed to be expressive, Shion would assume. He wonders how Nezumi might transform on stage, if his emotions will seem fake or unnatural on a face that is usually guarded.

            He wonders a lot about this Nezumi, actually.

            When Nezumi reaches out to take the toothbrush, of course their fingers do not touch. Instead, Nezumi’s skin grazes Shion’s glove, and Shion pretends he can feel it, the warmth that his mother told him resulted in the contact of skin-against-skin.

            He wonders if Nezumi’s skin is warm too, or if it is like his voice, cool and smooth. Maybe his fingers are soft, even though they share the hue of hard porcelain.

            “Thanks,” Nezumi murmurs, and Shion likes the way his gratitude comes grudgingly, likes that he has to earn it, likes that it only seems more genuine because of this.

            “You’re welcome, Nezumi,” Shion says.

            He likes saying Nezumi’s name. The syllables are strange and secretive on his tongue. Jumble around his lips like a mystery in themselves.

            Shion likes that this man has secrets. In a town where Shion knows everyone, it is nice to know he is no longer the only one with something to hide.

            “Toothpaste is in that drawer, and there’s floss and mouthwash too, if you want,” Shion explains, finally looking away from the mirror and pointing to the drawer.

            He glances then at Nezumi, and is just as amazed as he was when he saw him standing outside the bakery.

            This man cannot be real, he thinks, and he wants to reach out, touch him, make sure he is standing there and not a figment of his fantasies – but of course, he cannot do that.

            “Okay, I guess that’s it. I’m the room across the hall from yours. If you need anything, just ask.”

            Nezumi nods at him, reaching up to tuck his bangs behind his ears. His hair is long and sweeping, looks soft and silky, and Shion wants to reach out himself, run his fingers through it – but what does he know, anyway, about smooth? What does he know about silky?

             At the door, Shion stops, turns back, looks over his shoulder at the man in his bathroom. “Nezumi.”

            Nezumi looks at him.

            “Goodnight,” Shion says, and then he leaves, closing the door behind him and standing against it for a moment, wrapping his arms around his waist and squeezing his body as tightly as he can.

 

(Yellow)

When Nezumi walks out the theater after his audition, he is greeted by a yellow snow cone, thrust in his face.        

            “What are you doing here?” Nezumi demands.

            Of course, it is Shion, holding out the snow cone with one gloved hand and licking his own, which is blue and has stained his lips.

            “How’d it go?” Shion asks, instead of answering, still holding out the snow cone, which Nezumi has no inclination to take, but otherwise he’s certain Shion will drop it on him, so he ends up accepting it reluctantly.

            “How did you know I’d be here?” Nezumi asks, because if Shion is going to refuse to answer his questions, Nezumi will easily do the same.

            “You told me yesterday.”

            “I didn’t say what time.”

            “You weren’t at home, where else could you have been?” Shion asks, and when he licks his snow cone, Nezumi can see that the kid’s tongue is blue as well.

            “Why is mine yellow? It looks like it was peed on,” Nezumi says, looking at his cone suspiciously.

            “It’s lemon. You seem like you like bitter things.”

            “Why would you say that?” Nezumi snaps.

            Shion shrugs. “You like your coffee black, for one.”

            “Any other reason?” Nezumi asks, narrowing his eyes, and Shion peeks at him.

            “Not that I can think of,” he says, grinning to show off blue teeth.

            The guy is a complete airhead, Nezumi decides.

            “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question,” Shion asks. They have started walking side-by-side down the sidewalk. It is not Nezumi’s choice. He can’t stop the guy from following him, apparently.

            “You asked a lot of questions,” Nezumi mutters, taking a tentative taste of his snow cone, and it is repulsively sour.

            “How was your audition?”

            “Fine.”

            “That’s it?”

            “I got the part,” Nezumi sighs, realizing he won’t get Shion off his back until he answers him.

            “Really? You know that already? No call backs or anything?”

            “Guess I’m that good,” Nezumi replies, bracing himself before taking another taste of his snow cone.

            It’s spectacularly hot outside, and despite the bitter taste, Nezumi is grateful for the cool dessert, especially after coming out of the stuffy theater.

            The fact that Shion is still wearing his leather gloves is beyond Nezumi’s capacity to reason. As it is, Nezumi is fighting the urge to strip completely, and he glares up at the bright sun for just a moment before he looks away, blinking fast.

            “Look who’s narcissistic now,” Shion is saying.

            “Aren’t you supposed to be working at the bakery?” Nezumi asks, mostly to get some freedom from the guy.

            “I took a break.”

            “You take a lot of breaks.”

            “I wanted to visit you.”

            “Do you ever think before you talk?” Nezumi snaps.

            “Most of the time,” Shion replies, grinning. He points at Nezumi’s snow cone with his inexplicably gloved finger. “How is it?”

            “Sour.”

            “So you like it, right?”

            “I don’t like sour things,” Nezumi replies.

            “Then why are you eating it?” Shion asks, raising his eyebrows.

            “Do you ever stop talking?” Nezumi asks, exhausted from the unbearable combination of the heat and having to keep up with the kid’s conversation.

            “What kinds of things do you like, if you don’t like sour things?”

            “Quiet things. Things that know when to stop asking questions,” Nezumi sighs, and Shion laughs.

            “Would you like some of my snow cone, since yours is so unbearable?” Shion says, holding out his snow cone.

            Nezumi chooses to glare instead of answer. There is no way in hell he’s going to let himself look like a blue-mouthed fool the way Shion has.

            Shion watches him for another moment, then shrugs and retracts his hand. “Anyway, I was thinking I could show you around town today, since you’re new. What do you think?”

            Nezumi thinks he wants to find some shade and start reading his script somewhere private where he won’t be constantly badgered by never-ending questions.

            He also thinks that Shion will probably not accept this answer, and really, he’s too tired from the heat to argue.

            “Yeah, whatever. Is there a library in this place?” he asks, and Shion is grinning yet again, grabbing his wrist with a gloved hand, and pulling him so abruptly that Nezumi nearly falls, only just steadies himself.

            He wouldn’t go so far as to say the kid sweeps him off his feet, but there’s definitely something about the guy that catches him off guard, and while usually Nezumi would avoid such people at all costs, he can’t seem to shake this kid, and finds himself wondering if he wants to.


	2. Chapter 2

(Green)

When Nezumi laughs, it is sudden and hard and loud, his entire mouth opening wide so that Shion can see that his tongue is green before he covers it with his hand, doubling over.

            It’s startling, to see Nezumi laugh like this, and it makes Shion giggle a little despite his concern because Nezumi is clutching his side now, fingers wrapping around the fabric of his shirt as he crouches down.

            “Nezumi?” Shion hedges.

            The man holds up his other hand, the one still wielding the green apple lollipop given to him by one of the little boys from next door.

            Shion has a cherry lollipop, and sucks on it warily as he watches Nezumi continue to laugh. He didn’t even say anything funny.

            Actually, he was very serious, and would be annoyed that Nezumi is laughing if he wasn’t so mesmerized by the sound of it, by his own ability to break down Nezumi’s usual guard over his emotions.

            Though they knew each other for five months now, it is still a rare moment that Nezumi shows such emotion as this – that is, when he isn’t on stage. Shion attended each of his productions since they opened to the public two months before, and he is still amazed by each show – a point which he was trying to relay to Nezumi, that is, before the hysterics began.

            “Nezumi, seriously. I might have to slap you if you don’t stop that soon,” Shion warns, and Nezumi straightens up, still clutching his side, wiping his eyes with his other hand without dropping his lollipop.

            “Wow, Shion, you really – you really are something,” Nezumi breathes, shaking his head as if Shion is the one acting insane.

            “I didn’t say anything funny,” Shion replies, pointing his lollipop accusingly.

            “Yes, you did.”

            “What was funny about that?”

            “How serious you looked,” Nezumi replies, leaning against the window he is supposed to be wiping. Shion doesn’t chastise him, as technically he’s supposed to be sweeping, yet his broom is propped against the table beside them.

            “I looked serious because I was serious. I really think your performances change people’s lives.”

            “Shion, please stop saying it. My side hurts from laughing.”

            “Then stop laughing!” Shion snaps.

            Nezumi’s smirk falters, and then he’s serious too – as serious as he can be with green-tinted lips. “Shion, you need to get your head out of the clouds and actually start listening to the things you say.”

            “You always say that. I know what I say, Nezumi.”

            “If you do, then you don’t realize the meaning behind your words,” Nezumi says, brushing Shion off with a wave of his hand before tucking his lollipop in his cheek and grabbing his spray bottle to spritz the window.

            Shion curls his fingers into fists, the leather of his gloves tightening over his skin. “What gives you the right to say that? You don’t know what I mean.”

            “Hey, forget it, Shion. Go sweep before your mama yells at us.”

            “I don’t appreciate you just assuming you know more about my own words than I do,” Shion says to Nezumi’s back, not about to let it drop because Nezumi always thinks he can just win arguments without a fight, and Shion is not about to allow him such a delusion.

            Nezumi glances over his shoulder, hair falling over his eyes. “I apologize, Your Majesty,” he says, lips moving around the stick of his lollipop.

            “You’re just saying that so I shut up.”

            “Very astute observation, Your Majesty,” Nezumi says, winking before turning back to the windows, and Shion grinds his teeth before grabbing the broom and whacking Nezumi’s arm with it.

            “Ow! Shion – What the – ”

            “Take back what you said, or I’ll hit you again,” Shion says, brandishing the broom threateningly, and Nezumi turns around fully, places the spray bottle carefully on the table, narrows his eyes and removes his lollipop from his lips.

            “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, so of course Shion has to, hits the man again on the shoulder, and then Nezumi is grabbing the broom, pulling it towards him, but Shion hasn’t let go, stumbles forward.

            He drops his own lollipop, and it falls to the ground, but Shion hardly notices it because he is falling into Nezumi’s chest, feels the man’s body separated from his by only the thin layers of their clothes, and the panic is immediate.

            “You’re going to regret that,” Nezumi is whispering, his voice too close to Shion’s ear, a whisper that brushes the locks of his hair, and Shion raises his gloved hands, cannot think, knows he needs to move away, but it has been so long since he has been so close to another person, and it isn’t just another person, it’s Nezumi –

            “Don’t – Don’t – ”

            Nezumi’s arm is around Shion’s waist. Shion can feel it, the heat of it, does not know what Nezumi plans to do, but he cannot find out because he knows despite Nezumi’s threats that the man won’t hurt him, would not even think of hurting him – but Shion would, Shion would hurt Nezumi, so easily, so instantly.

            “I said, don’t!” Shion shouts, concentrating not on the feel of a human touching him through small layers of thin fabric and instead on the thought that he cannot hurt Nezumi, and with this thought he is freeing himself from Nezumi’s loose hold, pushing the man away more roughly than is necessary – but no, as much force as possible is necessary, he should have pushed harder, he should have retracted instantly.

            Nezumi steps back to catch himself from Shion’s shove, twirls his lollipop once between his long fingers, but otherwise he does nothing, just stares at Shion with narrowed eyes and another expression Shion cannot read – but he does not need to read it to know that Nezumi is thinking how Shion is such a freak, Shion is not normal, Shion is not right.

            Shion breathes deeply. He knows what he is, but it’s been so long since he’s thought it, it’s been so long since he’s been reminded, it’s been so long since it’s _hurt_ so much not to be able to touch someone.

            He wraps his arms around his waist where Nezumi’s arm had been a few seconds before, but of course, he cannot hurt himself, and this is the only human contact he can allow himself to receive, from himself to himself, always alone, always safe.

            Shion knows this is where he’s supposed to offer an explanation, or laugh it off, or change the subject, but instead he waits, wants Nezumi to say something, to say anything because the truth is, he loves the sound of this man’s voice.

            Maybe, to hear Nezumi voice the thoughts in Shion’s own head will make the words okay. Maybe, wrapped around the low comfort of Nezumi’s quiet syllables, Shion’s own fears won’t hurt so much, won’t hollow him out, won’t make him squeeze his body even more tightly, trying to contract some warmth from his own skin.

            “Do you want to explain?” Nezumi asks, after another minute has passed, and Shion blinks quickly, looks away from the man, at the table where the spray bottle sits.

            It is half empty, the soapy water a darker version of the translucent blue plastic bottle it resides in.

            “There’s nothing to explain,” Shion whispers, digging his gloved fingers into his skin.

            “There isn’t?” Nezumi asks skeptically, taking a step forward, and it’s only by instinct that Shion steps back, his arms unraveling quickly enough to stick a gloved hand between him and Nezumi, palm open, fingers fanned.

            “Don’t!” he shouts, panicked, blood fast and agitated under skin that has never been touched by another living being.

            It’s been a while, since Shion has felt so scared. Of himself. Of what he can do. Of what he finds himself currently truly and absolutely desperate to do.

            “Nothing to explain, huh?” Nezumi says, eyebrows raising, but he stops walking forward, and that’s all that matters.

            Shion realizes his mistake has already been made. He’s gotten too comfortable with Nezumi. He forgot the danger of connection, maybe because it’s been so long since he ever made one, maybe because if he thinks about it, he never made any in the first place – other than with his mother – out of fear of what he could do.

            “Just don’t,” Shion whispers, closing his eyes, not talking to Nezumi anymore, but to himself.

            He doesn’t know why he can’t just stop. He doesn’t know why he has to do this. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong.

            “Shion,” Nezumi says, and Shion opens his eyes.

            Shion loves this voice. The way it says his name. To hear it forever would be enough – he does not need to touch this man, no, the voice is enough. Shion tells himself this, it can be enough.

            Nezumi is watching him carefully, and Shion loves this too, the way Nezumi’s gaze has weight to it, and it’s almost like being touched – Shion can’t remember, anyway, what it feels like, but he’s sure it must feel like this, heavy and warm.

            He loves a lot of things about Nezumi, Shion has realized over the last few months, and he’s tried not to think about it too much, but Nezumi makes it hard to forget how lovely he is.

            He keeps reminding Shion with every word, with every second.

            “Don’t what, Shion? What do you think I’m going to do to you?” Nezumi asks, slowly, and Shion swallows, forces his arm back to his side.

            _It’s not what you would do to me._

            Shion shakes his head. “Nothing,” he breathes, breaking Nezumi’s gaze and looking instead out the window behind his shoulder. The afternoon sky is soft, like the clouds have been mixed with their hazy backdrop into a milky blue.

            Even when he’s not looking at Nezumi, he can tell Nezumi is still staring at him.

            He doesn’t mind, so much – or maybe he loves it, but no, he won’t think that, he won’t consider that.

            “Okay, Shion,” Nezumi says, after another minute, or maybe an hour, Shion doesn’t really know because time is nothing around Nezumi, and that’s the problem, really.

            That when it comes to Nezumi, nothing feels quite as it should, time has disappeared and happiness is natural and laughter comes without thought and his gloves have lost their comfort – everything has changed, and there is nothing Shion wants more than change, longs for more than change.

            They resume their usual afternoon routine – Nezumi cleaning the windows and Shion picking up the broom to sweep his fallen lollipop into a dustpan – and in the silence, Shion tries not to think about how the thing he most wants to change is himself.

 

(Blue)

Blue icing smears on Shion’s cheek when the kid lifts his gloved hand and rubs his face.

            He’s wearing double gloves, as he always does when he cooks, the clear latex gloves required in Karan’s kitchen pulled on over his usual black leather gloves.

            Nezumi finds the smear of blue cute, and has no desire for it to be removed from the face of his housemate icing cupcakes beside him. More important than his desire, however, is the possible chance to validate the theory Nezumi developed the night before, lying in bed in the room across from Shion’s and staring at his ceiling.

            Nezumi ices another cupcake, trying to make it look as flawless as Karan’s cupcakes, then sets his knife down and reaches up his own latex-gloved hand.

            He rubs his thumb over Shion’s cheek, the pad of his glove only picking up half the smear of icing before Shion flinches away, dropping his own knife and stepping back so hastily he falls.

            Nezumi stares at the boy, sprawled on the floor of the kitchen, suspicion confirmed.

            He sticks his icing-coated finger into his mouth, licks the glove’s fingertip clean, then peels the glove off because he’ll need a new one now. He turns to drop it in the trash, and when he turns back, Shion is still on the ground, chest heaving, looking a little pale.

            “You can explain at any time,” Nezumi offers.

            Shion exhales hard, a gush of air that’s audible, then slowly gets up, pushing himself off the floor with his double-gloved hands and standing a little farther from Nezumi than before.

            “I was just startled,” Shion murmurs, not quite looking at Nezumi.

            “Startled, huh?” Nezumi asks, and Shion glances at him, gaze more resolute than Nezumi expected.

            Nezumi has to admit, he’s a bit surprised. He’d never pegged Shion as a good liar before.

            “Yes,” Shion says, voice hard, and Nezumi can’t help but smirk.

            “Okay. If that’s all. Then touch me,” Nezumi says, holding up his hand between them.

            Shion stares at it, then glances back at Nezumi. “What?” he asks, as if the request was something difficult for even this airhead to grasp.

            “Touch my hand,” Nezumi says, waiting.

            He could reach out, try to touch Shion again without his gloves on now, but Shion really did seem scared, and Nezumi has no desire to scare the kid.

            Get some answers, certainly.

            Give the kid a heart attack, not quite.

            “Nezumi, I’m not – ”

            “I’m not an idiot, Shion. Don’t think you can just lie to me and get away with it,” Nezumi snaps, annoyed because he thought at the very least this kid respected him enough to give him the truth.

            It’s not like they’re friends or anything. But they’re no longer strangers, and Nezumi doesn’t think they’re just housemates either.

            Something more, he supposes, but it’s been so long since he’s had something more that he isn’t quite sure how to define it.

            _It_ being the comfort of this kid. The ease of it. The rightness of standing beside him and icing cupcakes, the acceptance of finding this kid waiting for him outside the theater after every one of his rehearsals and shows, the naturalness of talking to him, the satisfaction of arguing with him.

            The pleasure of looking at him, and more so, being looked at by him, those red eyes no longer alarming, but just as wide, always staring, though Nezumi can’t say he minds so much anymore.

            “I’m not lying to you,” Shion says, another lie, and Nezumi contemplates him, wonders what on earth he could be hiding, what secrets such an innocent kid could have.

            “Then put your hand against mine,” he says, and Shion, after looking at him for another moment, raises his hand slowly.

            Nezumi sighs. “Without the glove, idiot,” he says, and Shion hesitates, then pulls off the latex glove and reaches his hand out again.

            He presses it against Nezumi’s, and his fingers are shorter, Nezumi’s peeking up above his.

            “See?” Shion says, breathing a little too heavily.

            Nezumi raises an eyebrow. “I don’t see anything. When I said take off the glove, I was not referring to the latex, and you know it. Your leather glove, Shion, the one I’ve never seen you without. Take it off.”

            “Nezumi, this is stupid – ”

            “You can have your little secrets, but at least fess up to the fact that you’re lying,” Nezumi interrupts, not moving his hand from Shion’s because even though there is his ridiculous leather glove between them, he likes this slight contact.

            “I’m not confessing to anything!” Shion shouts, a little too loudly, and it echoes in the kitchen.

            Nezumi doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have to.

            He watches Shion’s hardened expression soften into sadness, and feels the cool of Shion’s gloved fingers trickling down his palm, along his wrist, until Shion’s hand falls and hits his side as if the energy had been seeped from the boy’s body.

            “I can’t touch you,” Shion whispers.

            Nezumi considers this. Waits for more, but nothing comes, so he speaks.

            “Why?”

            Shion shakes his head.

            “Not just me. You can’t touch anyone,” Nezumi supplies.

            Shion nods, not quite looking at Nezumi.

            Nezumi exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know, I’ve never been one for guessing games. You can tell me, or you can’t. It’s up to you.”

            Shion stares at the floor for another moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t think I’d know how to tell you,” he murmurs.

            Nezumi leans his hip against the counter. He’s wearing an apron, a blue one that Shion had to help him tie because it kept coming loose.

            He understands that some things are hard to say. Should be simple, but are just impossible, words that stick in the throat.

            He did not think Shion had any of these words. It saddens him, somewhat, that Shion has these words.

            But then Shion is looking up. “Come with me,” Shion says, and he turns and walks out of the kitchen before Nezumi can reply, so he has no choice but to follow, pulling his apron off and leaving it on the counter next to the one Shion removes.

            Shion leads him out of the bakery. On the sidewalk they walk beside each other, both silent, Nezumi curious but not altogether surprised – Shion has always been a bit strange, done things a bit differently.

            Nezumi looks up at the sky as they walk, thinking it looks like it might rain soon, hoping that they get caught in it.

            At the center of town there is a park, and this is where Shion leads Nezumi, who only observed it from a distance before. Shion walks past the playing children, the brightly colored plastic jungle gym, the swing sets, and stops only once they are surrounded mostly by grass.

            Nezumi looks around, searching for an explanation, but when he turns back to look at Shion, the man has disappeared.

            “Nezumi.”

            Nezumi glances down, realizes Shion has simply sat down in the grass cross-legged, so Nezumi sits too, across from him, leaving a patch of grass between them where a few small flowers sit.

            They are blue and bright and blossom in small bunches around them.

            “Ready?” Shion asks, and Nezumi nods although he’s not altogether certain the question was directed at him.

            Shion breathes deeply, then lifts the same gloved hand he pressed against Nezumi’s palm. With his other hand, he finally pulls off the glove.

            It’s just a normal hand. Five fingers, pale. Short fingernails. Nothing spectacular.

            And then Shion is reaching out, holding out just one finger, and he places it against the petal of one of the flowers, barely touching it.

            Instantly, the blue fades, from deep navy to rusted sky to sickly yellow to rotted brown, and then it’s blackening, not just the color changing but the shape of the plant as well, shriveling down and squirming in on itself until it is just a withered ashen echo of the flowers beside it.

            Shion removes his finger, holds his hand in a fist against his chest, and Nezumi stares at him, but Shion won’t look away from the dead flower between them.

            “It’s not just flowers,” he says, finally, and Nezumi looks back at it, the lifelessness of what had been so vibrant just seconds before.

            “Shion…”

            “Not just my hands, either, but any part of my skin. Nothing can touch me.”

            Nezumi absorbs this information. Has to keep looking back at the flower to remind himself, because it doesn’t seem possible, it can’t be real.

            “But, your mother…?” he asks, after a few minutes, and Shion glances at him.

             “The tissue lining her womb and birth canal must have been immune, for me to have fully developed and her to have given birth to me successfully. The rest of her is not.”

            Nezumi doesn’t know if he really wants to ask, but he does anyway. “How do you know?”

            Shion looks at him for a long moment, then breathes deeply and uncurls his hand from his chest, holds it out between them again.

            He hovers his fingers over the grass until they touch, and immediately the bright green begins fading to yellow. Shion moves his hand across the blades in a slow sweep of changing color as he talks. “For a few seconds, my touch isn’t fatal. There is intense pain, my mom said, and maybe internal damage, if it’s long enough, but nothing permanent.”

            Nezumi watches Shion’s hand in amazement. The grass looks as though it’s being painted by the flicker of his touch.

            “A second too long, however, and…” Shion trails off softly, letting his hand rest a second longer on one patch of grass, and the blades fade to the same yellow as the stripe of grass preceding them before blackening under his skin and shrinking down into their own small graveyard.

            Nezumi’s first thought is obvious, but he does not word it. He does not want to know if Shion’s touch ever lingered a second too long on a human being. He does not want to know if this boy has taken a life.

            Nezumi is not normally one to shy from the truth. But this does not seem like a truth. That this boy could destroy so easily cannot be true.

            That Shion is anything but good must be the lie.

            Shion has replaced his leather glove. He touches the patch of ashen grass with his covered fingers, pinches the blackened remains, and the coal blades crinkle and disintegrate between his gloved fingers.

            “It’s all I’ve ever known,” he says, quietly. “I’m used to it. I thought – I thought I had accepted it.” Shion looks up, and Nezumi stares back at him.

            His eyes are red, like a warning implanted in his very nature. But to Nezumi, they are the opposite of threatening. They are welcoming, they are genuine, they are selfless.

            “Throughout my life, there have been times when I’ve hated the way I am. I’ve wanted to be different. Normal. I’ve wanted to change before, I’ve longed for the simple feeling of touching another human before, but this longing, it’s always been bearable,” Shion says, so softly Nezumi finds himself leaning closer, just the slightest bit.

            He is not scared of this boy.

            He truly does not believe Shion could ever hurt him, and it is such a foolish thought in light of this newly uncovered truth, but Nezumi does not trust easily, does not feel safe easily, does not find comfort easily – yet this boy is the exception, and surely that must mean something.

            “But then you came into my life, Nezumi. And now, I cannot stand it. I cannot accept it. I don’t just want to be fixed, I’m desperate for it. To know what it feels to touch someone. To touch you,” Shion says, just like that, and the kid has always been careless with his words, never knows the things he says, the meaning they imply – but maybe he does.

            Maybe he understands every sentence.

            Maybe he means every word.


	3. Chapter 3

(Purple)

Shion curls his glove around the contents of his pocket, pulls it out and unfurls his fingers to reveal a palmful of purple ticket stubs.

            “Uh, it’s one of these,” he tells the ticket-ripper, poking through the tickets with his other hand, but the ticket-ripper shakes his head.

            “It’s fine, just go,” he says, and Shion nods gratefully, stuffs his tickets back into his coat pocket.

            He always sits in the back row of the theater, even on the weekdays when the crowd – if there is any – is sparse. He only went to the theater twice before Nezumi began acting there, and never before had he seen more than a handful of people in the crowd.

            With Nezumi, there is a definite upswing in ticket sales, but the theater is by no means full on any given night despite Shion’s constant presence.

            He has already seen tonight’s particular play four times, and is looking forward to the fifth, always finding something newly captivating in each of Nezumi’s performances. He’s realized that it is not only Nezumi he enjoys watching, but the entirety of the theater production itself.

            Today, as he waits for the curtain to open, he thinks about this and realizes his appreciation for the theater may stem from the fact that there is no touching necessary. Theater is about watching. Listening. Feeling, yes, but without the need for touch.

            He’s not sure what to do with this sudden realization, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it, as soon enough a man is walking on stage, but this isn’t the normal opening to the play, so Shion leans forward in his seat, watches with curiosity.

            “If I can have your attention,” the man says, and Shion recognizes him, recalls that this is Nezumi’s manager whom Nezumi consistently complains about.

            Shion smiles, thinking of Nezumi’s irritation, the heaviness of his sarcasm whenever he speaks of the man who continues to speak on the stage.

            “It is with great sorrow that I announce tonight’s showing of _Othello_ to be the Purple Curtain’s last production. However, it is my strong belief that the great William Shakespeare’s assignment of the world as a stage is true to this day and in our realities, and I encourage you to find the beauty of theater within your daily lives despite the tragic closing of this particular stage,” the man continues, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing at his eyes. Shion might have noted that Nezumi had been rather spot on in his dramatic impersonations of his manager had he not been preoccupied with what exactly Nezumi’s manager said.

            _Last production?_

            Nezumi did not mentioned this.

             But then, he hasn’t spoken much in the week since Shion showed him what he could do, and Shion tried not to notice it, told himself Nezumi just needed time to wrap his head around it, and that was fine, Shion was fine with that, would give Nezumi time, would give Nezumi anything.

            Shion leans back in his chair, tunes out the rest of the manager’s speech, notes only that the man is crying now, blowing his nose in his handkerchief in earnest. After another minute, however, he leaves the stage, and then the curtain is rising, and Nezumi is stepping forward, absolutely beautiful, completely stunning.

            It’s hard to believe, looking at the man on the stage, how fragile he truly is. How easily Shion could silence his lovely voice.

            Shion shoves his gloved hands under his thighs. He tries to focus on the show and only the show, but as mesmerizing as Nezumi’s performances always are, Shion finds it hard to concentrate on the words this man is saying.

            Instead, he can only stare at that pale skin, wonder if it would turn even paler under Shion’s touch, how such a thing could be possible, surely the only shade lighter would be transparent.

            Nezumi’s lips spreading into a grin on stage would turn blue, if Shion ever dared kiss them.

            The graceful sweep of Nezumi’s arms would become jerky, long fingers might curl like claws around Shion’s skin in an attempt to shove him off.

            Nezumi’s piercing eyes would open wide in pain, roll back in his head, and Shion feels sick, doesn’t want to think these things, cannot stand to imagine these things, but then, what gives him the right to fantasize about holding this man’s hand if he cannot bear to imagine the consequence of such an act?

           How dare he dream of tucking the dark strands of this man’s hair behind his ear if he feels sick at what would result from such a gesture?

            How can he possibly wonder at the warmth of this man’s flesh if just the idea of the repercussions has Shion doubling over, freeing his hands from his thighs so that he can wrap his arms around his stomach, squeeze tight, tell himself he is too empty to be nauseous.

            Shion cannot make it until the end of the production, even though it will apparently be Nezumi’s last show. He ducks out of the theater before he heaves, stands in the small bathroom with his gloves tight against the sink, sweating and flushed.

            He closes his eyes and breathes, reminds himself that this is nothing new, he is used to this, he has lived with it all his life and nothing has to change.

            The leather of his gloves squeaks against the smooth sink as Shion’s fingers tighten. He does not cry.

            Outside, the sky is darkening, throws shadows against the building that Shion stands against, feeling his sweat cool on his skin, shivering because of it. He left his jacket in the theater in his haste to get out, he realizes, but makes no move to return for it, and instead just clutches his arms close to his sides, relishes in the chill.

            “Hey, you left this.”

            By the time Shion hears the voice, he’s become so used to the cold that it’s no longer noticeable. Shion turns, blinks at Nezumi, who holds out his jacket.

            “Is the play over?”

            Nezumi nods once. “Yes. Unlike you, I can’t just leave in the middle.”

            Shion takes the jacket only so that he has something to do, a reason not to look at Nezumi as he pulls it over his arms. “Sorry, I just felt sick,” he murmurs.

            “Oh, I don’t care. You’ve seen the thing far too many times, anyway. It’s unnatural, if anything,” Nezumi says, leaning back against the building beside Shion.

            Shion realizes their shoulders brush, beneath the layers of their clothing, and he makes the smallest side step away, puts an inch between them.

            “Why didn’t you tell me the theater was closing?” he asks, looking sideways at Nezumi, who tips his head back against the wall of the theater.

            “Didn’t realize it was something you needed to know.”

            “Of course I need to know!”

            “Oh? And how does this concern Your Majesty?” Nezumi asks, in words that sound like a sigh.

            Shion crosses his arms. “For one, you’re my tenant, so your finances are always of my concern,” he says, and Nezumi scoffs, tilting his head to glance at him.

            “Are you worried I won’t pay you next rent?” he asks, softly.

            Shion grits his teeth, unsure how Nezumi manages to make him so angry in so few syllables that should be harmless – but he knows they’re not, when coming from this man. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

            “Then what are you saying?”

            “I don’t care about the rent, Nezumi! The theater is your job. It’s your livelihood. It’s something you’re amazing at, passionate about, and you’re acting like you don’t care – ”

            “Hold on, Your Majesty, don’t go taking it upon yourself to decide what it is I’m passionate about nor what it is I care about,” Nezumi says, turning so that his shoulder is leaning against the wall and narrowing his eyes at Shion.

            “I know you must be upset! I know you must feel something!” Shion shouts, and Nezumi raises his eyebrows, as if it’s weird for Shion to be shouting, as if it’s odd for Shion to feel upset, but someone should, someone has to.

            “Don’t worry yourself. I can take care of myself,” Nezumi says slowly, and Shion uncrosses his arms, holds them stiffly in fists by his sides.

            “I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, Nezumi.”

            Nezumi shakes his head, runs his fingers through his bangs. “Okay, Shion. The theater is closing. I’m out of a job. I may have to move out of your place soon to find a new job in another town. There, I’ve told you. What difference does it make? How does this change anything?” Nezumi asks, and Shion feels the cold again, pulls his jacket closer against his skin, but it’s not enough.

            He needs more than a jacket. He needs real warmth, the warmth of a human, and he’s needed it for so long, too long.

            “We can figure it out. Forget about the rent until you’ve got another job.”

            “Another job where?” Nezumi asks, speaking to Shion like he’s appeasing a small child.

            “There’s so many shops here where you could find work,” Shion attempts, but Nezumi only appears more skeptical.

            “I thought my passion was the theater,” he says, dryly.

            “Well, then, we can try to get the theater back up and running.”

            “How would we do that?”

            “I don’t know, Nezumi, but we could try! Aren’t you tired of moving from place to place? Isn’t it worth it to try something?” Shion asks, and Nezumi tilts his head.

            “Oh, is that how you feel? Aren’t you tired of wearing those gloves all the time? Isn’t it worth it to try something?”

            Shion exhales, his lungs hollowing so that his shoulders fall. He feels nauseous again, leans against the building. “It’s not the same. Nezumi, you know it’s not even close to being the same.”

            “So you’re going to live your entire life hiding behind those gloves?”

            “We’re talking about you right now,” Shion says, weakly.

            “Well, I don’t want to talk about me,” Nezumi replies, nodding his chin at Shion. “You said you wanted change, right? And then you do nothing, but go lecturing me about doing something when I never even expressed a desire to change my life. What gives you the right?”

            “How am I supposed to change? What am I supposed to do, Nezumi?” Shion asks, but really, he’s begging for an answer, he wants to know, he’s dying to know.

            _Tell me how I can touch you, Nezumi._

            “I never said you could do anything. Maybe you can’t change. Maybe, Shion, people can’t change. I move from theater to theater, from town to town, and that is my life, that is my decision, and if it means leaving this place, then fine. Don’t tell me to change like it’s something you know I want. You don’t know anything.”

            Shion shakes his head. Excuses, he knows this man is making excuses, but he can’t figure out why.

            How can someone who doesn’t have to keep distance between himself and others still do it so willingly?

            How can someone who has the choice to touch have no desire to feel the warmth of another human?

            “No, Nezumi,” Shion says, no longer leaning against the wall now, angry now, voice hard now. “You’re wrong. You could stay if you wanted to. You could be close to people if you wanted to. You could try, but there’s something in your past that makes you think you can’t, something that draws you to these theaters that have no hope at all, where you know you won’t have to stay permanently, where you know you’ll have an excuse to leave before you can develop any real feelings for the people around you – ”

            “Now hold on – ”

            “But you miscalculated, because I know I’m not just another person you met on your way, another person you’ll leave behind without any consequence. I know that. And whether you’re willing to admit it or not, you know it too,” Shion argues, because Nezumi hates lies, and it’s about time the man stopped lying to himself.

            Nezumi is quiet for a moment, watches Shion carefully, then, to Shion’s surprise, his exhale comes in a short laugh, his smirk spreading so naturally Shion can’t help but feel a bit comforted by the familiarity of it. “I knew you were a narcissist,” he says, and Shion tries to stop himself, but he feels his lips turning up too, the smallest bit.

            “Admit it, Nezumi. The distance you put between you and other people is deliberate. You’re defending yourself against something – getting hurt, I don’t know – but you don’t want to anymore. You don’t, I know you don’t.

            “If you’re so sure, then there’s no reason for me to admit anything,” Nezumi replies, an eyebrow raised.

            “Don’t belittle me. Don’t just brush off what I’m saying,” Shion retorts, and Nezumi sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, drops his hand.

            “What if you’re right, hm? There’s a flaw in your logic here, if you haven’t taken the time to step off your platform and spot it. If you’re the exception to the distance I want to keep, Your Majesty, you do realize that my previous qualms about getting hurt, as you say, are pretty valid,” Nezumi points out, and Shion stares at him, blinking, realizing he’s right.

            Nezumi may have spent most of his life refusing to feel anything for anyone, but the one time he failed, it is for a man who has every ability to hurt him.

            But Shion doesn’t want to think about this. Instead, he focuses on what Nezumi is confessing to, he focuses on what makes his heart race.

            “Nezumi, I want you to stay here. I don’t want you to move onto another town. I don’t want you to leave this place the way you’ve left the others. I want you beside me.” It’s selfish, he knows, but Shion never gives in to his own desires, keeps his gloves on at all times, doesn’t slip up. Now, maybe, he deserves one thing he wants – he at least needs to try.

            “You have to say it like that, right? Absolutely crazy,” Nezumi mutters, shaking his head.

            “Will you stay?” Shion asks.

            Nezumi traces his finger over his lips, watches Shion carefully, and Shion has always loved this, the way Nezumi looks at him, loves it now even more.

            “Under one condition,” he says, finally, and Shion nods.

            He didn’t think he’d get this man so easily, after all.

            “What is your condition, Nezumi?”

            Nezumi drops his hand from his lips, but instead of falling by his side, he outstretches it between them as he did in the bakery a week before, palm open, fingers fanned.

            “Touch me.”

 

(White)

Nezumi watches the blood drain from the kid’s face, the skin of his cheeks threatening to compete with the white of his hair.

            His breaths are shallow, lips open wide enough for Nezumi to hear their quick escapes and retractions.

            The kid is clearly frightened out of his mind, but Nezumi chalks this up as a good thing.

            If he’s scared, he’ll be careful. And if he’s careful, Nezumi is certain he’ll be fine.

            “Nezumi…. No. I’m not – I’m not going to kill you,” Shion whispers, breathless, and Nezumi sighs.

            Isn’t he supposed to be the dramatic one?

            “That’s a relief, Your Majesty. After all, I was not so attached to this theater that I’ve developed suicidal tendencies at its closing.”

            “But you said – ”

            “Just for a moment. That won’t kill me, right? That’s what you said. Your mama survived, didn’t she? Don’t worry, Shion, I’m sure I’m as tough as her,” Nezumi says, reassuringly. He has no desire to die. He is not one to put his life at risk – no, Nezumi is here to stay, and this kid is not going to change that, he knows it.

            But he has to know if Shion’s fears are valid. Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe his weird power has worn off over the years, or maybe, if he really tries, Shion can control it.

            Nezumi is guessing Shion was really young the last time he touched another person. He just didn’t have the willpower back then, but Nezumi has seen him now, how strong his resolution can be – he has faith in the kid, whether Shion himself does or not.

            “This has nothing to do with being tough or not,” Shion breathes, and Nezumi thinks he really looks like he should sit down.

            Nezumi retracts his hand from between them, instead reaches out to grab Shion’s arm, protected by the sleeve of his coat.

            Even so, Shion flinches, but Nezumi keeps his hold.

            “Calm down, it’s your decision. I’m just taking you somewhere to sit down, you look like you’re going to pass out on me, and you’re too heavy to carry. It’s too cold to be outside any longer anyway.”

            Shion says nothing and allows Nezumi to lead him back to the bakery, which is closed for the night, so Nezumi sits them at the table in the corner, the table where they sat on the first day they met, the table where they sat countless times after that.

            Nezumi waits until more color has reached Shion’s face before speaking. “Hey, I don’t have any plans on dying. I think this is something you’ve got to do. When’s the last time you let yourself touch another person? When’s the last time you tried?”

            Shion’s gloved hands are on the table, fingers tangling into themselves. He shakes his head at them. “You saw the flower, the grass – It hasn’t worn off, it’s not going to wear off, Nezumi – ”

            “Those were plants, you had no stake in them. You’re stronger than you think, Shion. If you truly don’t want to hurt me, I know you’ll be able to control it.”

            “You’re wrong!” Shion says, voice rising, but there’s only panic in it, and when he looks up at Nezumi, his eyes are wide, desperate.

            “You really think you’re that weak? That you can’t control your own body?” Nezumi asks, skeptical, because he knows this kid is an airhead, but he was certain Shion had at least some common sense.

            “It’s not – That’s not – That has nothing to do with it. You don’t understand, you couldn’t understand, you’ve never seen – You don’t know what it’s like,” Shion says, and to Nezumi, it sounds like he’s pleading.

            “Show me, then,” Nezumi challenges, but Shion just stares at him helplessly.

            “It’s been so long since I’ve touched someone. I want it so badly. I might not be able to – What if I can’t pull away? Nezumi, I can’t do this. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

            “Don’t give me that bullshit apology. I don’t want your apology. I’m not the one you should be sorry for, it’s you, you’re giving up on yourself before you even try,” Nezumi snaps.

            “I’m not,” Shion whispers, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

            Nezumi watches him closely, narrows his eyes. He thought Shion had more belief than this, was not so scared as this.

            Sure, it’s important to be cautious. But life means risks. Believing in things is just as important, just as crucial, and Shion is the one who taught him that, who showed him life doesn’t have to just be about surviving, can be about living.

            But the damn kid won’t even give himself a life, won’t even try, and Nezumi is disappointed. It’s been a while since he’s been disappointed, since he’s had anyone to offer expectations that they could even disappoint.

            Nezumi shoves his chair back from the table and gets up. “Fine. Like I said, it’s your decision. But I’m not sticking around here for a guy who isn’t who I thought he was. I won’t be here in the morning.”

            “Nezumi – Wait!” Shion says, reaching a hand out, and Nezumi looks down to see gloved fingers wrapped around his wrist. “You have to understand – I can’t hurt you – I won’t let myself – ”

            “I don’t have to understand anything,” Nezumi snaps, pulling his wrist free and walking to the door that leads to the stairs, climbing them slowly, hesitating for the smallest second in the doorway of his room before entering and closing the door behind him.

            He sits on his bed, almost regretting that it will be the last night in this room, but shaking his head to stop himself.

            There’s no use in regret.

            Nezumi turns, glances out his small window, but the sky outside is black, nothing to look at, so he sits instead with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, fingers weaved through his hair as he stares at the ground between his knees.

            He doesn’t want to leave.

            The thought is sudden and jarring and Nezumi is caught off guard by it, doesn’t know what to do with it, hates himself for thinking it.     

            He clenches his fingers in his hair, counts in his head, unsure what number he’s counting to, but when he reaches it, he will stand up, he will start packing, he will leave, and he won’t look back.

            He resolves to do this, but is still counting – _707_ , _708, 709_ – when there is a soft knock on his door.

            Nezumi glances up, lets his fingers fall from his hair, doesn’t get up from the bed but he doesn’t need to because his door is opening, and Shion stands in the darkened doorway.

            “Hi,” Shion says, and Nezumi notices his glove is gripping the doorknob a little too tightly.

            Nezumi says nothing. Watches instead as Shion takes a step into the room, unlatches his hand from the doorknob and closes it softly behind him, takes a few steps forward so that he is standing halfway between the door and Nezumi’s bed.

            “Are you really not scared of me?” Shion asks, soft syllables of his voice hardly reaching Nezumi.

            Nezumi stares at him, the white of his hair, the red of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the black gloves that squeeze his sides, as he has his arms wrapped tight around his waist.

            The truth is, Nezumi is absolutely terrified of this kid. He’s never left it to another person to decide the beat of his heart, the heat of his pulse, the course of his thoughts. He’s never depended on another person for his own contentment, his own comfort, his own happiness.

            It’s been some time since he’s given a damn about anyone more than himself, some time since he’s been willing to extend his hand to anyone without being certain they would offer him something in return.

            But Nezumi will not lie to this kid, and offers him the largest truth he has. “I trust you, Shion.”

            “Why?”

            “You won’t let yourself hurt me.”

            “You can’t know that.”

            “Yes,” Nezumi says, and Shion’s arms tighten even further around his waist.

            “Narcissism like that can get you killed,” he murmurs, and Nezumi grins, thinks this kid is truly something else.

            “I’ll take that chance,” Nezumi replies, and then Shion is stepping forward, sitting on the bed beside Nezumi, taking off his glove.

            “Nezumi – ” he starts, but he doesn’t finish, just curls his hand in his lap, covers it with his other gloved hand, stares up at Nezumi, eyes shining.

            Nezumi holds up his hand between them. “I trust you, Shion. Do you trust me?”

            Shion breathes deeply, and Nezumi watches the rise and fall of his chest before his gloved hand is releasing his naked one, and he’s lifting this bare hand, holding it up an inch away from Nezumi’s palm. 

            His fingers shake in the dim light of the room.

            “I trust you, Nezumi,” Shion breathes, and then his palm is against Nezumi’s.

            At first, there is only warmth, just the feel of another person’s skin. Shion’s hands are soft, tremble against Nezumi’s skin, and Nezumi wants to wrap his fingers around his, hold his palm tight, stop it from shaking, but he is hardly allowed to entertain the thought before the pain comes.

            The pain is hot and hard, starts in his palm where Shion’s skin touches, and Nezumi knows what it is like to burn, knows how fire feels against his flesh, the bite of its flames, the rip of its teeth – the feeling of Shion’s skin is infinitely worse.

            He cannot breathe. His chest constricts. His lungs are squeezed. All that Nezumi knows is that death will be a relief, the only solution to the melting of his skin, the shredding of every blood cell, the knives raking the underside of his flesh, the brand held against the soft tissue of his organs, the weight of suffocation.

            Time is nothing, and Nezumi cannot register it, can register nothing but pure agony, the betrayal of his own body – and then there is black.


	4. Chapter 4

(Black)

Shion sits outside Nezumi’s room against the wall, knees to his chest and the palms of his hands pressed against closed eyelids so that everything is black.

            He waits.

            While he waits, he tries not to think about anything. Whenever some thought creeps up, he presses his palms closer to his eyes, forces himself to concentrate only on the darkness.

            His eyes are starting to hurt when he hears the click of the door beside him, but still, he does not take his hands from his eyes.

            If he does, tears might fall out, and they might not stop.

            “Shion.”

            Shion remembers he’s supposed to breathe, so he does this, breathing so deeply he gets dizzy.

            “Honey.”

            He can tell from the proximity of his mother’s voice that she has crouched beside him.        

            It’s too close.

            Everyone is too close.

            “He’s going to be okay. He woke up and was able to drink water. Nezumi is going to be fine,” his mother says.

            Her words should be reassuring, but they’re not, and Shion is glad for this.

            He does not want to feel relief. He has no right to feel relief.

            “You have no reason to feel guilt. Shion, listen to me. You are strong. You are selfless, you have always been so selfless. I admire that in you so much, I am proud of you.”

            Shion hears the words of his mother, but he does not really listen.

            He focuses on the black. Drowns himself in the darkness.

            It’s better than what he saw when he held his hand against Nezumi’s. Anything is better than the white of Nezumi’s skin.

            The deathly white of the man who trusted him.

            “Shion, honey, please look at me.”

            Shion does not look. He presses his hands harder against his eyes.

            He is not wearing his black leather gloves. They sit beside him, and he presses his bare skin to his face, knowing that contact from his own skin will not hurt himself and wondering why, if that is the case, he still feels as though he is breaking.

 

(Red)

The sun streaming through the window paints the inside of Nezumi’s closed eyelids red.    

            He opens them.

            This is not the red he wants to see.

            He looks around the room, but from what he can see lying down, it is empty. He attempts to sit up, feels his body ache, but there is not real pain, and he pushes himself to a seated position against the headboard of his bed.

            His hand feels strange, and he takes it from under the blanket, looks at it, observes that it has been wrapped in a bandage.

            Nezumi looks at the bandage a second longer, then begins to unwrap it, slowly unwinding the fabric until the skin of his palm is revealed by stripes.

            It appears normal. A little red, but otherwise unharmed. He flexes his fingers, feels no pain, curls his hand into a fist, feels completely fine.

            There is a glass of water on his nightstand, and Nezumi reaches out, drinks it completely, sets the empty glass back on his nightstand and glances at the closed door of his room.

            He is waiting, he realizes, for Shion to appear through it.

            Nezumi is not very fond of waiting, however, and attempts to get up, but his body protests, pulls him back to the bed, where he sits in frustration, blowing his bangs up from his face in a huff of breath.

            The least that kid could have done, he thinks, is sit by his bedside until he woke. His absence is rather rude, in Nezumi’s opinion.

            Nezumi looks around his room again, notes the presence of his bookcase, and stretches to grab a book, but his limbs feel leaden, and it takes a good ten minutes before he can retrieve one, falling back onto his bed and panting.

            He wipes his bangs from his forehead where they stick with sweat and examines the cover of the book he managed to grab.

            _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy._

            Nezumi raises an eyebrow. He hardly needs a guide to the galaxy, and he definitely isn’t in any shape to be hitchhiking anywhere, but he opens it anyway, begins reading, is on page 143 when there is finally a knock on his door.

            Nezumi closes the book without marking his page, sets it beside him, and watches the door open to reveal Karan.

            He tries to mask his disappointment, but has a feeling he fails, as Karan smiles at him in a knowing way.

            “Hello, Nezumi. It’s so good to see you sitting up. How are you feeling?”

            _Where’s your idiot son?_ Nezumi thinks, but instead says, “Fine. Well.”

            “Now, I know from personal experience that can’t be true. Are you tired? Aching?”

            Nezumi tucks his hair behind his ears, accepts the glass of water Karan offers and downs it before gratefully taking the muffin she holds out. “I’ll be fine,” he says, his mouth full.

            “I know you will. But you need to let yourself rest.”

            Nezumi fidgets restlessly at the thought.

            _Where’s Shion?_

            “Take this Advil, it’ll help somewhat. Is there anything else you need, Nezumi?” Karan asks, and Nezumi doesn’t say anything because it’s obvious.

            Karan sits on the edge of Nezumi’s bed, takes his hand in hers, and her skin is soft like her son’s, warm like her son’s.

            “I’m telling him you want to see him, but he won’t come. You know Shion.”

            Nezumi nods. Stubborn, idiotic, an airhead, no doubt filling his head with thoughts that definitely can’t be good for him.

            “Karan. It was my idea,” Nezumi says, because he wants her to know.

            Karan just squeezes his hand. “You know, Nezumi, this was meant to happen since the two of you met. I hope you realize that,” she says, and Nezumi is unsure entirely what she means, but he does not have the chance to ask because then she is letting go of his hand, standing up, and leaving.

            Nezumi takes his Advil and reads some more.

            He does not see Shion for three days.

*

After three days, Nezumi can walk around the room, and does so as he continues to devour his bookshelf. He has read most of the books already, but enjoys rereading almost more than reading a book for the first time.

            He is leaning against the window frame, rereading _Twelfth Night_ when there is a knock on the door.

            Nezumi does not stop reading. It will be Karan, delivering his lunch, and he’s grateful because he’s starving.

            “Nezumi.”

            Nezumi turns because it is not Karan.

            He closes _Twelfth Night_ , places it on the windowsill, tucks his hands in his pockets.

            Shion stands in the doorway, looks as though he’s scared to cross the threshold.

            “Took you long enough to grace me with your presence, Your Majesty,” Nezumi notes.

            Shion shakes his head. “Nezumi, don’t,” he says, quietly.

            Nezumi leans forward. “Don’t what?”

            “Don’t pretend.”

            “Pretend what? Use your words, Shion, I know you know how.”

            Shion narrows his eyes, but his glare doesn’t quite come across. “Don’t pretend I didn’t almost kill you,” he says, just as quietly as before.

            “I’m not pretending you didn’t almost kill me. Why would you think that?”

            “Because you are. You’re not – You’re not reacting – You’re acting like it didn’t happen.”

            “Seeing as I have not left this room in three days, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t normally confine myself to small spaces – unless I’ve almost been killed, of course.”

            “Nezumi, stop joking.”

            “I’m not joking.”

            “Why aren’t you upset? Why aren’t you yelling at me? Why aren’t you disappointed, or scared, or – or – ” Shion trails off, voice rising for only a moment before falling back down.

            Nezumi watches him closely. He knew the guy would only become more of an idiot without his supervision, can’t say he’s surprised. “What is it that you would like me to yell at you?”

            Shion grips the edge of his t-shirt, pulls on it, looks a little unhinged, in all honesty. “Tell me that you trusted me! Tell me that I hurt you! Tell me that you can’t do this, that it’s not worth it, that I’m crazy, that I’m – I’m – I’m a monster, tell me to leave you alone, tell me you thought I was better than this, that you were wrong, that you were wrong,” Shion says, shouting at first, but then just whispering, and barely so at that.

            Nezumi watches him cover his face in his hands. He wonders how many times the kid has told himself these things. “I can tell you that you’re crazy, but the rest would be a lie, and you know how I feel about lies,” he says finally, slowly, and Shion’s hands slip from his face.

            “Nezumi,” he murmurs, then falls to his knees, hands flat on the floor, shoulders shaking.

            Nezumi grits his teeth, then walks over, slowly, crouches beside the boy, places his hand on Shion’s shoulder, feels the warmth of his body shaking underneath the fabric of his t-shirt.

            “I’m sorry, Nezumi, I’m so so sorry,” Shion mumbles, voice muffled and thick.

            “Don’t cry for me, Shion.”

            “I hurt you – I hurt you.”

            “I’m perfectly fine, Shion.”

            “I thought – I thought you were – I thought I had – ”

            “Shion,” Nezumi says, louder now, takes his hand off Shion’s shoulder to cup Shion’s chin and tilt his face up to look at him, but then he remembers, snatches his hand back just in time, and Shion looks up then, stares at him, red eyes wet and dripping.

            “I’m sorry,” Shion whispers, shrinking in on himself, retreating from Nezumi, who wants to reach out, but he can’t.

            He doesn’t know why Shion is apologizing.

            He doesn’t think Shion is the one who should be sorry.

            “Shion. Listen to me. Stop crying. Pull yourself together. I’m fine, all right? Hey, are you listening?”

            “I never wanted to hurt you. Nezumi, do you believe me? I just wanted – I just wanted to touch another human. I just wanted to touch you, forgive me, Nezumi, forgive me – ”

            “Hey! Stop saying that. I’m not going to forgive you because there’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t let you do anything. I don’t do anything against my will. Are you hearing me? I want this too. Shion. Stop sniffling so loudly, I don’t like repeating myself,” Nezumi snaps, but Shion doesn’t stop, won’t look away from the floor, so Nezumi sighs loudly, glances down at Shion’s gloved hands.

            He grabs one, and as Shion pulls away, Nezumi keeps his grip on the glove so that it comes off in his hand.

            “Hey – Wait – ” Shion stammers, but Nezumi ignores him, pulls the glove over his own hand, lifts his hand now and places it around Shion’s face, forces the boy to look at him, and he does so with wide eyes.

            The glove is tight over Nezumi’s hand, the fingers of it too short, but it’ll do for now, and Nezumi swipes his thumb across Shion’s cheek, wipes away some of the tears.

            “Wow, you’re a messy crier,” he notes, and Shion sniffs loudly. “Are you done now?”

            Shion sniffs again, and Nezumi lifts his hand from Shion’s cheek, slides it up until his fingers weave into Shion’s hair, the white of which shines only more brightly against the black contrast of Shion’s leather glove.

            “It’s going to be fine,” Nezumi says, and Shion blinks, a few tears stuck in his eyelashes.

            “I don’t think it can be,” Shion says back, voice breaking.

            “I can wear gloves too, you know. I’ve heard I look pretty good in them,” Nezumi says, and Shion stares for a second, then shakes his head.

            “I’m not going to ask you to do that.”

            “I didn’t say you were.”

            “Nezumi, I don’t think you understand. You deserve someone you don’t have to be scared to touch. You deserve someone you don’t have to be terrified of every day,” Shion says, and Nezumi raises his eyebrows.

            “You know what it is I deserve then? I, personally, as the narcissist we’ve already established I am, believe I deserve what I want. Are you going to argue with that?” Nezumi asks, and Shion shakes his head.

            “You don’t want this.”

            “Try not to take it upon yourself to decide what I want,” Nezumi advises, taking his hand from Shion’s hair, slipping off Shion’s glove and holding it out to him.

            Shion takes it with his gloved hand, pulls it back on with slow movements.

            “Are you going to come with me to get my pair?” Nezumi asks. “You keep wanting to apologize for something or other, don’t you? Well, you can keep your useless apology and instead fork over some money to buy me my own gloves. I’m recently out of a job, you know.”

            “Nezumi…”

            “What? What is it now? If you start crying again I’m going to have to kick you out. I’m trying to recover here, I don’t need added stress,” Nezumi snaps.

            Shion looks up at him. “We won’t be able to kiss,” he whispers, and Nezumi can’t help but stare at the complete idiot.

            He truly is a character.

            “I am aware of that.”

            “But I want to kiss you.”

            “Please refrain,” Nezumi advises, and Shion shakes his head.

            “It’s not going to work.”

            “Because you can’t stop yourself from kissing me? I didn’t think I was that irresistible. Look, give me a few days to stop aching every time I walk, and then we’ll try that. You better be a damn good kisser to make it worth the pain though, so I advise getting in some practice in the meantime on your arm or something.”   

            “Nezumi, I’m not going to kiss you!” Shion says, blinking and leaning away from Nezumi.

            Nezumi shrugs. “Well, then, problem solved.”

            “The problem is not solved.”

            Nezumi sighs. He’s tired of crouching, and his legs ache, so he sits on the floor, weaves a hand through his hair. “Shion, look. Either we can try this, and the only way we can touch each other is through gloves or fabric, and we can’t kiss, and we can’t have sex, and that’s that.”

            “Or?” Shion asks, quietly.

            “Or,” Nezumi says, taking a breath, “this is it. I leave, because I can’t stay here like this, we both know that. We try this, or I go. And I don’t know which will be better for us. I don’t, Shion, but this is the first time I’ve ever wanted to stay somewhere instead of go. After you almost went and killed me, mind you.”

            “I don’t want you to sacrifice anything for me,” Shion murmurs, and Nezumi does not say what he’s thinking.

            That he has nothing to sacrifice.

            That the only thing he wants is this complete airhead, for reasons he cannot fathom, and if the guy comes with conditions and a pair of gloves, then fine.

            He does not say these things, mostly because Shion has cried enough already, and Nezumi doesn’t want to risk more waterworks.

            “Shion,” he says instead.

            Shion blinks at him, white eyelashes wet and heavy.

            “Are you going to protest more, or will you come with me to get my gloves?” Nezumi asks, watches the skin of Shion’s throat as he swallows.

            He’ll never be able to touch this skin.

            Never be able to press his lips to it, to feel Shion’s pulse against his own skin.

            But the mere fact that he’d even want to is something Nezumi never thought he’d have. The idea that there is someone he desires to touch is enough – to be able to touch him would be a luxury, and Nezumi has never had a need for luxury.

            “Okay,” Shion says, finally, nodding once, sniffing again as he stands up and extends a gloved hand to Nezumi. “I’ll come with you.”

            Nezumi takes the gloved hand, feels the leather-coated fingers wrap around his own, and neither man lets go of the other as they leave the room. In the narrow staircase, Shion’s hand trails behind him as he leads, and Nezumi watches their entwined fingers in front of him, squeezes gently.

            If this is sacrifice, he thinks the term has been highly underrated.

            If this is a problem, he never wants to find the solution.

            Outside, the sky is bright, and Nezumi closes his eyes, knowing Shion’s hand will guide him, trusting this boy completely as the sun paints the insides of his eyelids.

 

THE END


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